


Fragile and Composed

by TheOceanIsMyInkwell



Series: A Little Unsteady [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: (mentioned) - Freeform, Accidental Outing, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Tony Stark, Blood and Violence, Bullying, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Coming Out, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, I PROMISE THIS HAS A HAPPY ENDING OKAY, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Has Anxiety, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter and Tony have their first fight basically, Peter is biracial, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Skip Westcott - Freeform, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Transphobia, Violence, bc ice cream solves everything apparently, i don't blame you for not trusting me tho, i feel like it's important to warn you, improper use of a deadname, is that even a tag?, shit goes down in act 3, theres also a lot of ice cream in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-24 05:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15623904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOceanIsMyInkwell/pseuds/TheOceanIsMyInkwell
Summary: “I’m not sneaking behind your back! What the--and I’m not getting brainwashed.”“Sure. So the whole ‘we fight for our ideals and yeah, people get hurt but what matters is taking down the bad guy’ spiel is totally your idea.”Peter gesticulates wildly with a visceral groan. “I--stop putting words into my mouth! I didn’t say it like that!”“Oh, really. Then please, by all means, rephrase it for me. Because it sure as hell sounded like a spitting image of Captain America’s rousing pep talk about fighting for good ole Uncle Sam and his fucking outdated ideals.”“I don’t even like Mr. Rogers.”“Yeah, buddy, it sure sounds like you don’t."---When Steve Rogers shows up in Tony’s backyard a year after Berlin, there’s nothing Peter would like better than to clock Captain America in the jaw. So how does the kid end up taking advice solely from Steve about bullies and losing control at the homophobe that has been harassing him and his friend? And how will Peter begin to repair the trust that Tony now feels is broken between them?





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So this was a long time in coming. Maybe because I had to freaking REWRITE it so many times to get Steve’s characterization right. (I adore Steve in _Captain America: The First Avenger_ , but the breakdown of his relationship with Tony in _Civil War_ definitely made me struggle with maintaining positive feelings about him. I still admire Steve in some respects and think he’s one of the most memorable Avengers, but I could wax poetic about all the ironies and paradoxes of his character and how his ideals don’t fit perfectly into a modern world anymore...so yeah I’m gonna shut up now. :) ) Also, keep in mind, Infinity War is non-existent in this series, so this is the first meeting between Steve and Tony since CW. Suffice it to say that I strove my best to treat Steve’s character with fairness and compassion in this fic and I hope I succeeded!
> 
> Credit for Malia Florez, the spitfire OC you’re about to meet in Act II, goes to [QueenLiliuokalanitheGreat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoudicatheGreat). Bee, you’re the best.
> 
> Before reading, please be reminded of the important trigger warnings: bullying, transphobia, physical violence, mentions of blood, misuse of a deadname, accidental outing, panic attacks and suicidal thoughts. Yeah, shit just got _heavy_. Stay safe! *peace sign*
> 
> Theme song and title inspiration: [“Hurricane” by Fleurie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZcf3oXfz5k). This song is a _journey_. Listen to it to the end.

**_Act I_ **

Steve doesn’t quite know what he expected when he decided to set foot on Tony Stark’s immaculately striped backyard, but it certainly wasn’t a teenaged runt rolling around in the grass and screeching with laughter while a Tibetan mastiff leaps on top of him and slobbers his face with its tongue.

“Grumpy! Grumpy! Ow--ow--ow--okay, you win! I give up! You win!” The boy shrieks out another peal of laughter as the dog’s paws dig into a particularly ticklish spot in his side. Bobbing its head in triumph, the dog sits back on its haunches, still tangled on top of the boy’s limbs, and pants with a contented cock of its head.

“Good girl. Who’s a good girl now?”

The kid sits up, wincing slightly, and encircles the dog’s untrimmed floof of fur around her neck with both his arms. His denim jacket is patchy in spots with dew and dark grass clippings. The dog takes advantage of his vulnerability just then to sneak attack him with another lick to the face.

“Ew! Gross! _Grumpy_.” Still, his voice holds only fondness. He continues to comb his fingers through her fur and scratch her behind her right ear, when suddenly she turns in Steve’s direction with a whine.

The boy follows her gaze. He doesn’t scramble to his feet like Steve originally assumed he would, but there is no mistaking how his stance tenses a second later. His eyes lock on Steve’s and maintain the contact while the man makes slow strides toward him across the lawn.

“Afternoon, son,” Steve says in what he hopes sounds like an affable greeting. “You live in the compound?”

The kid’s eyes narrow infinitesimally. “Funny that you ask that, Mr. Rogers,” he says, tone casual and light. “I don’t think you do.”

Steve’s steps slow to a halt. His hands begin to curl at his sides--habit, he chides himself--before he wills them to loosen again. He’s unsure what to say to that. He glances to the side, toward the reflection of the sun bouncing off the glass panes of the top floors of the compound. When he returns his gaze to the teenager, he realizes with a jolt he’s towering over the kid, who hasn’t budged an inch from his seat in the grass. If the sun were to shift just a bit to the west, Steve’s own shadow would be thrown over the boy’s form like a metaphor for the threat that he clearly is from the kid’s eyes.

The boy’s grip on the dog’s neck fur tightens ever so slightly. The only sign that, perhaps, the glint in his irises is not fear--not intimidation--but mistrust. A thinly veiled aggression. And the dog must be restrained, lest she pick up on the signals radiating from her owner.

“Glad to say I haven’t heard that one before,” Steve finally quips back. The dry jest falls flat between them. Too many seconds have already passed.

“Easy, Grumpy,” the kid mutters, as the dog surges forward at the sound of Steve’s voice. To the man he replies: “The compound’s closed.”

Steve makes a noncommittal hum. “I definitely called before I came over. Heard there’s still folks living in there.”

For whatever reason, that particular statement of Steve’s seems to make the skin around the kid’s eyes tighten. “Not anyone who you should be seeing, sir.”

“Right. War criminal and all that,” Steve says evenly, nodding.

The dog lets out another low whine. The kid shushes her and wraps both arms around her again to bring her head toward his chest. The gesture distinctly reminds Steve of a father calming a child against a storm. He supposes the comparison isn’t completely unwarranted.

“Does Tony know you’re here?”

 _Tony_. First name basis? Steve files that tidbit away for later analysis.

Instead, he blinks and finds himself raising his head again to the top floor of the compound beside them. Habit. Each one is still hard to break, even after a year of absence. He shakes his head. “I didn’t exactly give him a heads up.”

“Wrong, Mr. Rogers,” the kid says quietly. The man glances back down at him. “He knows you’re here. You think he wouldn’t have doubled the security and perimeter alarms?”

A muscle in Steve’s jaw twitches. The kid may not have uttered it, but the other half of his sentence still rings clear. _You think he wouldn’t have done that, after everything that went down between you two?_

“Well, then, I guess if he wanted to take me down, he would’ve had the technology to have already done that by now.”

The kid raises his chin with lips pressed into a thin line, as if to acquiesce: _You’re not wrong_.

“What’s your name, son?”

A beat. “Peter.”

“Nice to meet you, Peter. Beautiful dog you’ve got there.”

“She’s not mine, but I’d fight anyone who tried to hurt her.”

Steve can’t help the creeping feeling that somehow, the kid’s words were meant to bear a double meaning.

He changes the subject. “You still in school?”

Peter nods. “High school.”

“Freshman?”

“A rising junior, actually,” Peter corrects him. Though Steve has known the kid for barely two minutes, something tells him that Peter’s answering smile is tight. Forced. 

“My bad. So...is school nearby?”

Peter crosses his legs underneath Grumpy. He gives Steve a look that resembles _You and I both know there are no schools for almost fifty miles around here_. His gaze is too calculating for the man’s comfort.

“No,” Peter answers at last. “I go to school in the city. Midtown Tech.”

Steve wonders just then where his hunch came from. “That’s in Queens, isn’t it?”

“For science geeks, yeah,” Peter cuts him off. He hasn’t exactly answered the question. “And before you ask, I’m an intern for Mr. Stark.”

 _Mr. Stark_. Steve suddenly decides there is nothing casual at all to the swing from first name to surname, and he can’t shake the sensation that there is something slightly deeper behind it.

“He’s taking interns now?” Steve lets his hands hang loosely on his hips, opening up his stance a little. “Sounds like a lot has changed in the past year.”

“Mr. Rogers. That’s the understatement of a...century.” The kid’s tone is dry--excessively so. He stands this time, slowly, with a hint of caution, and even though Steve knew from the start the boy is small, he can’t deny that he does have presence. If not for the frayed edge on his hoodie and the grass stains all over his denim jacket which belie his painful youth, Steve might almost venture to say Peter could stand like a man.

And Steve definitely doesn’t miss the jab at Captain America’s upcoming centennial birthday.

He lifts his baseball call to smooth back his overgrown hair before placing it back down on his head again and lifting a chin toward the compound. “Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, Peter. I’ll...see you around.” And he starts moving toward the closest entrance he remembers.

A few seconds later, he glances back. The kid is matching him stride for stride, hand buried in the fur of the Tibetan mastiff’s neck.

“Are you _following_ me?”

“Not at all, sir,” Peter replies without missing a beat, as he blatantly follows Steve to the glass door.

FRIDAY’s lilting voice startles the man from somewhere above. “Captain Rogers. I’m afraid you do not have clearance to access the compound.”

“Uh...that’s all right. Can you ask Tony?”

“I will ask, but--” Suddenly FRIDAY pauses, and then resumes in an unmistakably sullen voice: “Boss has temporarily overridden my protocol. Access granted, Captain Rogers.”

There is markedly no “Welcome back, Captain Rogers” tacked on at the end of that, but Steve’ll take whatever he can get. The blue lights on the pathway ahead of him lead him straight to the communal kitchen. The habits pounded into him by years of military training still have him scanning the area from his peripheral vision. It’s open, no tight corners, flooded with light, surrounded with ceiling-to-floor glass windows. Steve doesn’t doubt the choice of first meeting place is no coincidence.

Tony’s voice drifts out from behind the bar. “Parker. Back in from your break?”

Peter stiffens a little. “Yeah. Y-yeah, Mr. Stark.”

“Good. Because I need you to get back on fixing that pixelation bug with the StarkPhone 6.7. The one we were discussing last week.”

Steve slides his gaze sideways just in time to catch the boy furrowing his brow. “Sure. Of course, Mr. Stark.”

“Lab 4. The schematics are already pulled up.”

“Key code?”

Tony leans over the bar then, for the first time offering Steve a glimpse of the side of his face. The goatee is still as impeccable as ever, eyes dark and expressive as he remembers them, but something’s shifted in his visage. A kind of fondness. A tentative relief that Tony doesn’t yet want to believe in, as he makes eye contact with the kid.

“Don’t worry about it. FRIDAY’ll let you in.”

“Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“Ah-ah-ah, no furry mammals in any of my labs.”

“I know. I’ll drop her off outside.”

“Happy’s just pulled up in the west garage. You can swing by there and then head on up.”

“Sounds good, Mr. Stark!”

“Parker, hold up.” Tony grabs a fruit from the wire bowl on the counter and unceremoniously tosses it at Peter’s retreating back. Steve bites back a grunt of surprise when the kid simply turns around and catches it in one hand with what could almost be described as a bored expression on his face.

“An orange? Really, Mr. Stark? You won’t let Grumpy in but the sticky fruit juice is A-okay--”

“Clementine. Know your citrus fruits, kid.” Tony clears his throat and sniffs. When Grumpy starts nosing around the fruit in Peter’s hand with an eager whine, Tony waves the two off with a dismissive hand. “Okay, Parker. Up you go. I want a full and detailed report by the time you come back down here in an hour.”

Only then, for the first time in the past five minutes, does Peter flick his gaze up at Steve. It would be difficult not to, considering the man is standing directly in his line of vision between him and Tony now. Peter’s gaze swerves sideways to lock on Tony’s. “Mr. Stark, I can be quicker than that.”

Tony rubs a hand over his chin. The unmistakable hint that what he is about to say is coded. “It’s all right. An hour should be good.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Tony points at thin air in the direction of Peter’s retreating form. “Remember, Lab 4.”

“I don’t know what you call that, but that sure as heck isn’t an intern,” Steve remarks in a low voice, once the boy and his oddly fluffy dog are gone.

“I don’t care what you think, but my intern is not the reason for your visit,” Tony shoots back. He grabs a bottle of scotch from under the counter and pours himself a generous glass. He doesn’t verbally offer one to Steve, but he does leave the bottle and another dry glass there on the granite within the soldier’s reach.

“You’re right. It’s not. I’m...surprised you didn’t take longer to let me in.” Steve huffs and looks down at the worn aviators he has been absently toying with in his hands. “I appreciate it.”

“Well, you obviously only have two guns on your person right now, so it would be preposterous to suggest I couldn’t handle that.” There’s a tightness around Tony’s eyes--it strikes Steve as jarringly similar to the expression on the boy back in the yard not more than five minutes ago--but his mouth quirks upward in a coolly controlled smirk.

“They’re not for you, Tony. I hope you know that.”

Tony doesn’t answer for a minute as he swirls the remainder of his drink in the bottom of his glass. He knocks back the last of it and quickly reaches for a refill. “I hope you know the facial hair isn’t for you, either. Can only be pulled off by one Midgardian Avenger, unfortunately.”

Steve huffs out another little laugh under his breath. He shakes his head and pulls off his cap to part his overgrown locks with a hand. “Yeah, well, you don’t really have a choice when you go into hiding. Speaking of which, recent events lead me to believe… _we_ have more reason than just Ross to stay in hiding. Except we can’t. Not any longer.”

Tony stiffens. Slowly, he lowers the glass to the granite surface with a clink. He doesn’t need to clarify to know that ‘we’ refers to the Rogues. “Details. Now.”

“They call themselves AMMO, short for American Mutant Management Organization.”

“Acronym’s got a ring to it, but the actual name’s a bit of a letdown,” Tony interjects in a mutter.

“It’s short and to the point. Because that’s exactly what their mission is, Stark. There’ve been attacks--messy operations, really--but from what little intel we could get, we’re positive they’re targeting mutants. Especially the ones that live on their own or have no real protection, no higher affiliations. We didn’t know concretely at first that AMMO was behind the attacks, but...after the third one, everything clicked. Especially since just two days prior, AMMO made a quiet announcement that Phase 1 of their research on ‘containment methods for dangerous humanoid mutations’ had just been completed.”

“Why the _hell_ is this the first time I’m hearing about this?” Tony’s left hand is suddenly shaking. He curls it viciously into a fist.

Steve physically sways backward half a step at the other man’s tone. He raises a hand placatingly. “Look, I know it’s shocking to know about this only now, but--”

“Rogers.”

“Right. Technically, their base is just across the border to Canada. It’s not like they’re trying to gain publicity. Quite the opposite. We only knew about the private announcement because one of us managed to get in undercover--after she got a hunch and acted on it, of course.”

“So Natasha gets to ‘act on a hunch,’ poke around with her spy skills and then let you know that yeah, it’s about ten times more serious than you first imagined, before you decide it’s time to let me know?”

“Tony--”

“ _Rogers_.” The edge in Tony’s voice makes even the supersoldier suppress a flinch. “How many were hurt? Where are they now? How old are they?”

“Nobody was killed. One was injured, a bit more severely, but we’ve got her under surveillance and--”

“ _How old are they?_ ”

“Ranging from sixteen to twenty-seven,” Steve answers quietly.

“Christ. _Fuck_.”

“Tony. I…” Steve sets the aviators and the cap down carefully on the counter. “I get that you’re upset, but you gotta understand, the attacks happened in different states across the country. One in Washington, another in Minnesota. We weren’t on--you and I--well. You know what I mean. We had it handled, and besides, involving you in something thousands of miles cross-country would have left New York without a major defender.”

At that, Tony visibly deflates. He slumps against the bar, elbows on the edge and his hands gripping the back of his neck as he hangs his head. When he speaks again, he sounds marginally mollified. “Still wouldn’t have hurt to have a heads-up.”

 _I guess_. Steve doesn’t voice the thought. Instead, what comes out is: “Our team was handling it.”

This time, it’s Tony who flinches. He yanks at the hair at the base of his skull. _Our team. Your team. Not the Avengers_.

“So why now? Why bother coming to me today? Ah, I know. You’ve realized your technology is outdated compared to what this--this AMMO has in store for you. Is that it?”

Steve’s jaw shifts, and he doesn’t reply with an immediate denial. “Tony, if they really are starting to grow into a major threat, every superhero needs to know.”

“Where was the last attack?”

“What?”

“You said the other two were in Washington and Minnesota. You never said where the third one was. So where was it?”

A frightening, heart-shattering beat follows before Steve clears his throat. “New Jersey.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tony says again. “This--this is--I can’t. I can’t do this.” He straightens and paces back and forth behind the confines of the bar with the look of an almost rabid animal. He waves clumsily toward the door. “You have to get out, Rogers. Leave. Out of my house.”

Steve ventures a step closer. “Tony, there’s more details to--”

“Out. _Now_.”

The other man hesitates.

Tony opens his mouth, once, twice, like a fish, but nothing comes out. His voice leaves him tight and strangled. “This is exactly how we ended up like this in the first place.”

Steve lets his gaze fall to the floor. He turns his head to the side.

“This,” Tony says again. He gestures expansively. “This whole not-telling-me bullshit thing. _This_ is what caused our problems from the start.”

“...I know.”

“New Jersey is too fucking close to my hometown, Rogers. I may have the technology and know-how of a genius billionaire, but there are actual real people out there I need to protect. There are young people-- _kids_ \--” His breath hitches and his voice cracks, ending in a ragged silence before he can continue. “Kids I know whose DNA would catch the attention of these AMMO fuckers sooner or later. Yeah, you’re lucky no one died, but there shouldn’t even _be_ anyone so exposed and vulnerable to these attacks in the first place. This is why you need to _tell_ me shit when it happens, _before_ it happens. That’s what we _do_.”

Once again, all Steve can offer him is another subdued, “I know.”

“I _know_ you know!” Tony explodes. When the only response he gets from Steve is a low clearing of his throat and a shift in his position to press his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Tony turns away and busies himself with rinsing out his glass unnecessarily under the tap.

 _Not even an I’m sorry_.

Steve clears his throat again. Tony has the urge to scream at him to just get to the fucking point already, but he swallows it down along with the bile rising at the back of his tongue. “Tony...do you think Ross has anything to do with this?”

Tony’s hand crumples around the neck of the bottle of scotch. “I didn’t let you in to hear you throw speculation at me just to throw shade at the Accords. They’re not perfect, but they’re not the point of discussion here.”

“But do you think?”

Tony doesn’t miss the way Steve has phrased it--twice now--as a question, not as an accusatory statement. Some measure of progress, he supposes. “I haven’t spoken to him in a couple months,” he hedges. “It’s not like he was going to be hounding you guys forever, what with other foreign military issues to worry about. Most of the discussions have been redirected to the UN. Appropriately, I might add.”

“So you’re implying that Ross is basically fading from the picture.”

Tony risks a glance upward at him. “There does tend to be an expiration date for every major...political…”

“--Scandal?”

“ _Event_ ,” he corrects Steve, waving a hand. They both clearly know they’re referring to Sokovia. “When other threats come up on the horizon, earlier disasters get pushed to the back burner. I didn’t imagine you would have to stay in hiding for that much longer.” Tony tacks on the last part more softly, almost strained.

Steve matches the lowness of his tone this time. “Believe me, it would be a relief to me too if Ross weren’t involved. This isn’t about proving anyone right or wrong. I just want to do a clean job. A seamless takedown. Together, we have the resources to do just that--quickly and efficiently.”

“Assuming there’s a ‘we’,” Tony mutters.

“I don’t see how you are in a position to hesitate on this,” Steve says, suddenly steely. His former patience has frayed thin in the past year. “You yourself said there are young mutants out there who--”

“If _we_ do this,” Tony interrupts, “it’s going to be on my terms. You already screwed the pooch coming to me at this late hour. We’ve established that, okay? I am not going to be operating in the dark again. That’s over. That’s done. I’m providing the tech, I’m providing the surveillance power, so I get to know everything before it even gets formed into a plan.”

“That’s reasonable.”

“It isn’t reasonable, it’s right.”

“Sure.” Steve nods.

“I need--I need--look.” Tony releases a heavy breath like the weight of the wind has been battling against his ribs the entire time. “I need time, to...to--to think things over, decide what’s the best way to go about this. Prepare my labs. Build shit. Gird our loins, so to speak.”

“I’d say take all the time you need, but we both know we don’t have that luxury.”

“Two days,” Tony responds. “Let’s meet up back here in two days. Text me whatever other details you think are important, in the meantime.”

“I’m bringing Natasha.”

The narrowing in Tony’s eyes reads _I’d really rather you not_ , loud and clear, but he nods anyway. Once, stiffly.

“FRIDAY.” Tony raises his voice ever so slightly.

“Yes, boss.”

“Pull up all results from private servers within the past year about AMMO. Date the files and send them to my lab.”

“Already on it, boss.”

“I’ll text you,” Steve says, reaching for his cap and shades again. He moves toward the door. “I actually have an audio file of Natasha’s report. She still keeps those things around. I can have her forward it to you for me.”

“Whatever you like,” says Tony. He’s already tapping at his watch and swiping through dozens of hologram displays in front of him. He doesn’t even glance up once as the supersoldier makes his silent leave.

Unsurprisingly, Peter is at his side like a shadow the instant Rogers is out and can be seen crossing the perfect green landscape through the wide glass windows.

Tony frowns at one of the more recent folders FRIDAY has just sent him. Without looking up, he remarks: “You didn’t even bother going upstairs, did you.”

“Hard to take the elevator up to a Lab 4 when there is no Lab 4 to begin with,” Peter rejoins dryly.

“I thought the message was loud and clear. What part of ‘don’t eavesdrop on the adults’ was so hard to understand?”

The kid’s voice pitches up a little. “I’m pretty sure you meant ‘don’t let Mr. Rogers know you’re eavesdropping on us,’ Mr. Stark.”

“Fine.” Tony closes the hologram and turns to him with a feigned sigh of exasperation. “So what exactly did you hear, Spiderling?”

“Um...actually not much because I did actually go down to the garage to give Grumpy back. But I heard Ms. Black Widow is coming. And that you apparently watch _The Devil Wears Prada_.”

“How does every conversation with you somehow always center back to pop culture references.”

“Because you’re in denial about how old you are, Mr. Stark.” At Tony’s faux glare, the kid visibly deflects. “So w-what exactly is it that’s coming?”

“Nothing that needs worrying about just yet,” Tony says, though the glint in his eyes says anything but. “Hey, why don’t you go find Happy again and let him know you’ll be heading on home early?”

“You--you want me to--go home now?”

“Sorry, bud. Long night in the lab and it’s not even going to be fun projects for you. I’ll get you some takeout before you leave, though. Enough for both your metabolism and Aunt May and then some.”

The kid is even more confused than ever, and Tony’s heart twinges for him, but this is for his own good. Sure, he’ll be letting Peter out of his sight for several hours, but the alternative--telling the kid everything about AMMO and knowing full well that Peter will fling himself quite voluntarily and theatrically into danger’s arms to protect the other mutants--is most definitely a no-go.

“C’mon, Peter,” Tony says softly. The kid’s gnawing at his lip, but the rare use of his name gets him to look up at the man. “I’ll have you over in like three days’ time, how’s that? We still need to go over that bug in the drone that you mentioned to me.”

Peter gives a resigned nod. As he starts to cross the kitchen to the living room where his backpack is slung across the couch, Tony stops him with a hand on his shoulder. He’s holding out a wad of cash.

Peter’s eyes widen. “W-what’s this for, Mr. Stark?”

“Babysitting for Happy, obviously.”

Peter frowns. “That was hardly a favor. You know he was about to behead me for asking if I could even come near Grumpy.”

“Fine. Then this is for managing not to sic her on Cap when you had a chance and a clear shot. I appreciate it, kid.”

“I wasn’t _planning_ on siccing her on Mr. Rogers…”

“Oh, come on, buddy. You’re not fooling anyone.”


	2. Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony throws the gear-shift into park and lifts his sunglasses to the top of his head, then turns to place a finger under Peter’s chin. “Hey. Lemme see.”
> 
> Peter flinches from his touch under the pretext of rubbing his good eye with a fist.
> 
> Tony casts him a helpless look. “C’mon, bud. I need to assess the damage.”
> 
> “It’ll heal, Mr. Stark.”
> 
> In answer, Tony simply grabs the kid by the chin again and turns his face toward him. Peter winces, but this time, he doesn’t put up a struggle. He shuts his eyes again in an unmistakable expression of shame that boggles Tony’s mind a little.
> 
> There’s definitely a cut on Peter’s left eyebrow and another black eye forming over an old one that he must have gotten during a mishap as Spider-Man. The new shiner is swollen and shiny, mottling his left eye with with angry patches of red and yellow under the tender skin.

**_Act II_ **

Peter hates coffee almost as much as the process of standing in line crammed between twenty-odd chattering office workers just to get it. And so for the sake of his social anxiety--and his sanity, really--he swings by the tiny hipster café three blocks down from school the next day to grab a mocha latte for Ned and a hot chocolate for himself as he waits for the other boy to get out of Comp Sci club.

The barista seems familiar, but Peter can’t quite place her as he squints at her for several more seconds than is socially acceptable. She seems to read his mind and quirks a brow as she pushes back the bandana from her dark curls. “Malia,” she chuckles. “Used to play trumpet in band, remember?”

“Oh!” Peter exclaims. Now he feels stupid. “How--how could I--I’m such an idiot. Sorry. Of course you are. It’s been, uh, it’s a been a…”

“...Rough day?” she supplies.

“Rough couple of months, actually,” he huffs out with an embarrassed chuckle. “Sorry. Again. I don’t usually forget names or faces. It’s just--God, it feels like so long, doesn’t it?”

“Nah, you’re good.” Malia takes the second cup from her coworker behind her and scrawls Peter’s name across the lid. “I quit band months before I heard you did, so when I joined again this year you missed me. It’s understandable. You’re clarinet, right?”

“Yeah. I thought Charlie was playing second trumpet?”

“I do French horn now.”

“Ah.” Peter nods and rubs his hands together in his characteristic nervous tic before taking the drinks that she slides across the counter to him. “Never can get enough F horn players.”

“Right,” Malia drawls.

“S-so, uh, so when did you start working here?”

Malia scratches at the inner corner of her elbow underneath her wrap. “Maybe two months ago? I have an interview with Starbucks tomorrow afternoon, though. It’s twenty cents more, so if they say yes I’m definitely switching over.”

Peter grimaces. “Even if it’s Starbucks?”

“Eh.” She shrugs. “The rush usually happens in mornings and lunchtime, so the after-school shift shouldn’t be _that_ bad, don’t you think?”

“True.”

“That’s four ninety-eight with tax.”

“Oh! Right.” He digs around for the rumpled remains of the wad of cash from Tony. “Lucky you, you got a work permit.”

“Yeah, well, when you work for your dad first it’s not hard to establish a good history.” Malia flashes him a tight-lipped, genuine smile when he waves off the extra dollar and change. Peter nods, recalling dimly that Malia’s family owns a restaurant or bodega of some sort. “You could always ask your aunt. I mean, you’re almost a junior now, right?”

“Ha. Good luck to anyone trying to convince Aunt May to let her nephew _work_ , God forbid.”

Malia rolls her eyes good-naturedly along with him. “Tell her you’re a big boy now.”

“Kinda hard to argue with her on that one when she tries to pull out the tape measure every time--” Peter cuts himself off with a flush when Malia breaks out into a grin--a proper, pearly-toothed _grin_ \--and shakes her head at him. The thought niggles at the back of his mind that he could only dream of the kind of self-confidence that Malia has always exuded since the day she came back from Christmas break with the breezy announcement that she would henceforth be feminine-presenting. Frankly, she never needed the dangle earrings or delicate bangles to enhance the glow that always wrapped around her since then, but they certainly accentuated what seemed to be her true self finally coming out of the dark.

“Look at her, livin’ life as her authentic self,” Peter remembers MJ muttering with almost an air of wholesome jealousy.

“Well, tell Ned I said hi. And once I get a leg in on Starbucks, I’ll give you a good ref.”

“Uh--thanks, I guess?” The mere notion of hard-eyed, finger-tapping, gray-haired businessmen barking their orders at him terrifies Peter, but he’s nothing if not a polite kid.

As he’s turning away, Malia sniggers. “Just kidding. You’re too clumsy to handle coffee. See you around, Peter.”

With that, Peter gives a three-fingered wave at her around the cup in his hand and makes his exit. Another Jaymes Young song has just come on in the earbud in his left ear, pushing a spring into his step.

“Hey, son. Peter?”

Peter yelps and stumbles over his own feet at the sudden voice to his right. The baseball cap and aviators and unkempt blond beard are too recognizable for him to have missed, but in his defense, he’s been occupied with thoughts of music, drinks, and Ned and Malia.

“Captain--sir--Mr. Rogers,” Peter gasps out, setting down the drinks quickly on the nearest table to free his hands. His first instinct is to clutch at his chest, but he changes his mind last minute and fidgets with the hair at the back of his head instead. He pops his earbud out and hooks it around his neck. “Mr. Rogers, what are you doing here?”

In answer, Steve smiles and lifts the small java-colored sketchbook in his hands. The garden chair screeches on the pavement as he tips himself forward. “I thought this was a pretty deserted spot to hang out without being recognized.”

“Right. Um.” Peter twists his fingers around his left wrist.

Steve points vaguely at the kid’s face. “Handsome shiner you got there.”

“Oh!” Peter’s hand flies up on instinct to cover the fast-healing vestiges of a bruise along his cheekbone and circling around the outside of his left eye. He’s practically forgotten about it until now, given that Malia didn’t even comment on it.

“Kids bothering you at school, son?”

Peter swallows. He tugs at the hem of his faded blue sweater, suddenly self-conscious. He weighs his options for a fleeting moment: Steve has no idea that Spider-Man is a sixteen-year-old kid moonlighting in vigilantism on weekends and every other school night; but what will he think of Peter for admitting to being a weakling getting pushed around by a bunch of high school bullies? Peter rapidly decides that at the very least, he and Steve aren’t nearly close enough for the man to interfere too much in his personal affairs, so he whispers to himself, _fuck it_ , and replies: “Sort of. Kinda. Yeah. It’s okay, though.”

Peter would say Steve’s expression clouds over comically fast, if only it were possible to say his expression could be read from behind the impervious shades.

“That’s not okay, son.”

The kid slumps a little. “I know, sir.”

“How's the other guy looking?”

Peter pauses a moment to consider. The bruise is a vestige of last night's fight with a would-be carnapper, who had just enough rapid reflexes to leap out of the driver’s side and take Spider-Man by surprise for a second. Finally he answers: “A little worse than me.”

A smile tugs at Steve's mouth. “I'm glad to hear it.”

“W-wait--why--” Peter struggles to rephrase himself. “You're Captain America. You're, like, the _paragon_ of--of--”

“Peacemaking? Not exactly, son. I fought in wars, Peter. I'm a soldier. Always have been, always will be. Always dreamed of being one from the start.”

“Not for the sake of violence, though,” the kid says. “I didn't think you were that type.”

“No,” Steve agrees, “not for that reason. For selfish reasons at first, mostly. Wanting to be useful--make something out of what was otherwise a pretty pathetic life. Later, it became clearer that all along, I was born to serve my country and...protect those who couldn't protect themselves.”

Peter glances down and fiddles with his cuffs with a nod.

And then Steve tacks on: “And sometimes, fighting for what you believe in and trying to protect others, there's other people that get hurt. It's always a war. Just on a different scale, depending on every different interaction.”

Peter would like to say he doesn't know why his blood runs cold at that, but the truth is, he does.

_What else did Stark tell you?_

_That you're wrong. But you think you're right, and that makes you dangerous._

When Peter doesn't say anything back for an awkwardly long time, Steve seems to interpret his white-lipped expression with some measure of accuracy. “I get it, son. I really do. You can't just let these bullies trample all over you. It--it does something to your heart, it really does, when you get so used to not fighting back.”

Peter stares at him. “You ever had a bully?”

Steve offers a low, ironic chuckle. “Did I ever. Of course. I was the skinny asthmatic kid with a smart mouth in an era when being able-bodied enough to serve your country was the only measure of being a man. I was defensive and I ran my mouth a lot. Got me in a lot of trouble, but...I'm proud to say I never let my fists go still in any fight. If they couldn't feel my punches, then at least they'd get the gist of my sentiments.”

Peter makes an odd, strangled sound in the back of his throat as he considers the image of himself, superpowered Spider-Man in Peter Parker's clothes, pummeling the daylights out of Jonathan Cress, resident toilet-dunker of Midtown High.

He remembers Sokovia. Flashes of it on TV. Shards of the horror he'd felt even at an age too young to understand the gravity of an entire chunk of earth crumbling beneath the feet of innocents.

_You're wrong. But you think you're right, and that makes you dangerous._

Peter blames no one: no, he is too good for that. But what frightens him in this moment is not what Steve is saying, but the fact that somewhere deep down inside him, it resonates with Peter Parker.

\--

To be fair, Flash didn't actually mean to spit his Coke out all over Peter this time in homeroom, but it feels pretty damn good to be able to blame him at least once for the hell of a predicament Peter's in right now.

“Did Ned give you that shirt, huh? Is it his favorite? You wear it because it smells like him and it reminds you of him?”

Peter’s slowly being backed up into a corner by Jonathan pushing mercilessly into his space. He doesn’t wait to feel the cold tile against his back before shooting a look over Jonathan’s shoulder at Malia and then at the door. His message is clear: _Get out while you still can_.

She returns an infinitesimal but vehement shake of her head.

Peter’s hand is shaking. First order of the day: hide any signs that his heart is thumping faster than a jackrabbit’s in his throat. He thrusts his fingers into the pockets of jeans.

“You know, I used to think you were cool,” he says casually. He takes one more step back and then stops. He will not be pushed any further back against the wall. He won’t. He refuses to.

Jonathan cocks a brow at him. “I still am. What’s your point?”

Peter talks over him. “Y’know, when we were both freshmen in bio and were on that unit about the reproductive system. And then you shared that really weird fact about the ovarian tubes which, like, okay, it’s a little disturbing that you know _that_ much about it, but like, that was cool, you know? I never thought you would’ve been so ignorant and close-minded about this stuff. It’s just, like, a paradox, man. Gender and sexuality and shit--you’re like, almost there, you could almost understand it, and you’ve got the brains to do it, but you just don’t want to. And that doesn’t make you cool. It just makes you a dick.”

“Okay, Professor Penis, I’m not here to listen to your lectures about the _reproductive system_ when clearly _this_ turd”--he shoots a thumb over his shoulder at Malia--“doesn’t even have one.”

“Which is none of your fucking business,” Malia cuts in, seething. Under any other circumstances, the toilet water trickling in rivulets down her cheeks would detract from the venom in her tone, but the rage in her eyes is too ablaze to be reckoned with.

“What she said,” says Peter. “So, uh, you should leave, man.”

“What’s it to you, huh? Why are you protecting _him_?”

Peter attempts to sidestep Jonathan, who simply mirrors his movement. “Because _she_ is my friend, and you don’t get to hurt my friends.”

“What are you gonna do then, intimidate me with your science puns?” Jonathan flicks at Peter’s shoulder with a hand. It takes all his willpower not to flinch back.

“Hey, don’t touch him!”

Jonathan glances back at Malia. “Stay out of this, _Ricardo_.”

“Her name is Malia. Just leave us alone.”

“You don’t tell me what to do, you gay asshole. You and your gay little friends. You shouldn’t have come in here.”

“Okay, cool, next time I’ll just change in the hallway. Not like this is a public bathroom or anything,” Peter shoots back.

Jonathan squints at him. Takes another step closer. Despite himself, Peter feels the breath hitch in the back of his throat. He’s Spider-Man. He’s got superpowers. He chants it over and over to himself. Spider-Man. Spider-Man can’t get hurt.

He finds just enough breath to raise his voice over Jonathan’s shoulder. “Malia. _Tienes que irte. Busca a los maestros, saben que hacer_.”

“No!” she spits back. She’s stalking closer in measured steps. “Jonathan, get out of the way. Peter’s leaving with me.”

“I’m done with you, Ricardo. You can leave. Peter and I still need to have a talk.”

Jonathan places a hand on the tiled wall on either side of Peter’s head. He’s tall, so much taller, and Peter is left staring at the spot where Jonathan’s Adam’s apple is bobbing up and down. The breath is ragged and unyielding in his chest. When did the air get so hot and ashy?

“Malia,” Peter speaks again. At least his voice sounds steady. “ _Estaré bien_.”

“ _Idiota. Estúpido_.” She sounds like she might be tearing up, but her dry eyes belie nothing. The trembling in her features can only be described as fury.

“Shut up,” Jonathan hisses.

“Malia! Go! I’m serious.”

“Pete--”

“ _Búscalos_. Go. Now.”

\--

Either Peter is becoming uncannily skilled at reading people’s expressions from behind their sunglasses, or the worry lining the skin around Tony’s eyes is simply too apparent to miss.

For a split second, the boy considers getting into the back seat, but the instant he turns his body to open the rear door, Tony clucks his tongue and points at the passenger’s side. “No, no, in here, Underoos.”

The kid visibly slumps before letting his backpack fall from his shoulder and slipping into the front seat. He fastens his seat belt as slowly as humanly possible and then immediately buries his hands in the folds of his bookbag. There’s a disjointed, frantic clinking, as if he’s fidgeting with a keychain hanging from the backpack. Tony suppresses the urge to reach out and grab the kid’s hands to keep them still.

“Sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter rasps out. Tony pointedly keeps his eyes on the road. Has the kid lost his voice from the fight or from crying? He can’t tell, and something tells him the kid would like to keep it that way.

Tony scratches at the side of his goatee. He surprises himself when his tone comes out even and almost calm. “Sorry about what?”

“That you had to come all the way here to pick me up. Of course they couldn’t get a hold of Aunt May at this time. I tried to tell them I could get home by myself perfectly fine--not like anybody picks me up _after_ school on most days--but they wouldn’t listen--said they needed to make sure an adult was present and, uh, I--I, I, I didn’t know she put you down, honest, I swear, I thought maybe she’d put Ned’s mom’s number or something, but I…”

Frankly, Tony isn’t that nonplussed at May switching out the emergency contact information for his. Ever since discovering Peter’s secret hobby as a crime-fighting teenage vigilante, she must have figured that the next best person to protect him is the superhero struggling to mentor him in the first place.

“Hey,” Tony cuts him off softly. “It’s okay. It’s no big deal, really.”

“It’s a really long drive, and nothing _dangerous_ happened, like, not Avengers-level, and I--God.” The kid groans and knocks his head back against the headrest. He brings his hands up to dig the heels of his palms into his eyes. From the corner of his vision, Tony notes the boy’s fingers are shaking. “Mr. Stark. I’m so sorry.”

“Enough of that now,” the man says with a gruffness mingled with false cheer. “Do you want McDonald’s or Burger King?”

The boy is quiet at the question--uncharacteristically so. Normally, he wouldn’t even so much as let Tony finish his food-related sentence before bursting out into a Peter Parker-style word vomit.

Tony physically turns his head to the side and dips it a little, coaxing Peter to look up at him. “Kid?”

In a whisper of shame so low Tony almost misses it, Peter breathes out: “...Can I get a Frosty from Wendy’s, please.”

Tony can’t help it. He scoffs a little.

Peter sinks down further in his seat and shoots the man a look. “What? Frosty’s are great.” He shoves his hands between his thighs. Tony knows him well enough to sober immediately at the gesture, subtle though it may be. 

“Sure,” Tony agrees. “Whatever you want, kiddo.”

Ten minutes later, Peter is stabbing his spoon into the gooey vanilla mess with seemingly no real intention of eating it. Tony sighs and pulls into the farthest parking space in the lot behind the drive-thru. Peter’s head jerks up in alarm. “N-no, it’s okay, Mr. Stark, I can eat on the way. You don’t--you don’t have to stop on account of me.”

“Uh-huh. Just give me a minute here.” He throws the gear-shift into park and lifts his sunglasses to the top of his head, then turns to place a finger under Peter’s chin. “Hey. Lemme see.”

Peter flinches from his touch under the pretext of rubbing his good eye with a fist.

Tony casts him a helpless look. “C’mon, bud. I need to assess the damage.”

“It’ll heal, Mr. Stark.”

In answer, Tony simply grabs the kid by the chin again and turns his face toward him. Peter winces, but this time, he doesn’t put up a struggle. He shuts his eyes again in an unmistakable expression of shame that boggles Tony’s mind a little.

There’s definitely a cut on Peter’s left eyebrow and another black eye forming over an old one that he must have gotten during a mishap as Spider-Man. The new shiner is swollen and shiny, mottling his left eye with with angry patches of red and yellow under the tender skin. The faint bruises on the left side of his jaw are already halfway through the stages of healing, and his nose shows almost no sign of a beating, save for the dried bits of blood on one corner which the kid must have missed to clean up. The leftover ice cream in Peter’s spoon is streaked with a diluted pink, but Tony tries not to think too much of it, assuming it’s from something split inside the boy’s mouth.

“Show me your teeth,” Tony commands.

Sighing, Peter peels back his lips for a moment and complies. There’s definitely some cut up there leaking blood over his two front teeth, but it’s minor. Tony feels himself release his own breath of relief; and yet an unshakable tension between his shoulders remains.

“Was it that Flash kid?”

Peter furrows his brow. “No, it was--it was another guy. Jonathan.”

“Who the hell is Jonathan?”

“Um--uh, a classmate from chemistry.”

“And why is this the first time I’m hearing about this? Who is this guy? What does he say to you? Has he touched you before?”

Peter thinks back for a moment on how he just narrowly missed the toilet-dunking initiation last year because Ned called at him from the other end of the hallway while he was on his way to the bathroom. Some other poor runt from biology got soaked in his stead, Peter had heard later.

“No,” he answers eventually. “Haven’t...haven’t exactly talked to him much before, either. But I--I--couldn’t just stand by and let him do that to Malia.”

“And who the _fuck_ is Malia?”

Peter jumps in his seat. As if out of reflex, he shovels the rest of his melting ice cream into his mouth and starts choking. Tony realizes the mistake he’s made with his tone and regrets it the instant the words leave his mouth, but it seems as though nothing will wipe the wide-eyed fright from the kid’s eyes.

Tony turns back to face the wheel and leans an elbow against it as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I--sorry. Um. Malia’s an old friend. She’s a--she’s a...well, people didn’t really bother her much when she came out a couple months ago, but like, this Jonathan guy is _super_ transphobic and…yeah…”

“Looking out for the little guy,” Tony says softly, almost to himself.

Peter doesn’t answer. He hangs his head instead and yanks viciously at a hangnail.

“Did you sort this out already with the principal, or do you need me to give him a call? Explain what happened?”

“W-why would you need to call him, Mr. Stark? You’re not--not--”

“I know I’m not, kid. I just thought, you know, an extra voice from an adult might help.”

Peter’s vehemently shaking his head. “It’s okay. Really. I already explained and...I mean...when you get suspended there’s not really any chance of reversing their decision. And I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry that I dragged you into this--”

“Wait, _what_?”

Peter curls in on himself at the edge in Tony’s voice. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“No, no. I don’t need your apologies. I need a goddamn explanation. You got _suspended_? Who the--that asshole threw the first punch! Didn’t you tell ’em that? God, Parker, you gotta--you gotta--” Tony squints. “What’s wrong?”

Peter’s shoulders are shaking. He leans forward in his seat, stretching out the safety belt with a zipping sound, and he shoves his forehead into his hands. “Sorry,” he gasps out again. “Sorry, Mr. Stark. It was me. I--I threw the first punch. And...to be fair...he looks like he’s in worse shape than I am...”

“What. The _fuck_.”

Peter flinches once more.

“Parker. _Parker. Look at me_. What the fuck is going on? Why would you do that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For the love of God, stop saying sorry!” Tony roars.

“I’m--”

“No. Don’t even fucking say it.”

Peter watches him silently from the corner of his eye.

“Do you have _any_ idea what you’re capable of?” Tony slams his hand against the rim of the steering wheel. “God. I can’t believe I’m telling you this. You can catch a two-ton SUV going at forty miles per hour with one hand. You can break a doorknob with a twist of your finger. You’ve--you’ve lifted a whole goddamn warehouse with your back, for God’s sake. Do you even understand what I’m saying? Christ. Jesus--kid, I understand when you would need to defend yourself, but what--I don’t-- _what the hell_. What the _fuck_ got into you, throwing the first punch like that? You could’ve lost control!”

Peter doesn’t say anything, and for Tony his silence is just another earth-shattering confirmation of his last statement.

Tony rounds on him with a venom in his voice. “You, young man, are fucking lucky that guy didn’t land in the hospital. Don’t give me that look. I know he’s a bully. I _know_ he was being an asshole to your friend. But you never, you _never_ let a civilian get the best of your control.”

Peter opens his mouth once, twice. Lets it fall closed. There’s a new kind of spark in his eyes, one that is beginning to unsettle Tony.

Rather than another whispered _sorry_ , what comes out instead is: “You’re the one that’s always telling me I gotta stand up for myself.”

Tony gapes at him. “Excuse me?”

The boy’s tone is quickly rising. “You’re the one that asked me why I didn’t fight back when Flash pushed me. Whenever he said--said those things to me. I don’t get it. Why are you laying into me now?”

Tony throws his hands into the air. “Laying into you! Just--wow. Did you even hear a word I just said?”

“Mr. Stark, it’s not fair!”

“What do you mean, it’s not fair?!”

“You’re an Avenger--you and Cap and Mr. Rhodey and Black Widow and all--Avengers, you all fight, you fight when you believe there’s something there worth defending, and people may get hurt as a result of it, and you try to prevent it, but what _matters_ is that you’re doing your best to stop the bad guy before more damage is done. Heck, you _tell_ me to stand up for myself, and then when I actually do it you turn around on me and give me a lecture! You’re such a hypocrite!”

An unnamable kind of ice is creeping through Tony’s veins, and he cannot pinpoint exactly why.

“Don’t you dare take that tone with me.”

“You’re not my father. And stop deflecting from the issue!”

“I’m not--” Tony sucks in a pained breath and clamps his trembling hand into a fist. “You, Peter Parker, are sixteen fucking years old. _Barely_. You’re a kid.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“ _Yes, you are_. You’re a kid. And you’re pulling all these metaphors outta thin air, thinking it compares to what just happened in school today, but you’re wrong. You’re the kid. I’m the adult. I know better, and I’m here _telling_ you I know better, and this is the part where you actually listen for once in your goddamn life.”

“I am listening! I’ve been listening all this time! Why do you think I never said anything when Flash--”

“I’m not talking about not saying anything, I’m talking about _not losing your control_ \--”

“If Steve thought like that, he wouldn’t even have been the First Avenger.”

The silence that ensues is deafening.

“Ex _cuse_ me?”

“He had bullies, too. He didn’t let any of them take him down without a fight. Always let them feel his fists--”

“Hold on a minute. _Steve_? Are we talking about _Steve fucking Rogers_? What are we now, on a first-name basis?”

Peter rolls his jaw and stares out the window. “No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. I just...we saw each other in the city yesterday and we got to talking.”

“W-wow. Wow.” That’s definitely Tony’s pulse rising to a new alarming high. His vision begins to quake. “I let you out of my sight for one day and you--wow. Going on coffee runs with the great Captain America now, are you? Sneaking behind my back and getting brainwashed. I--I fucking told you he could make anything sound right.”

“I’m not sneaking behind your back! What the--and I’m not getting brainwashed.”

“Sure. So the whole ‘we fight for our ideals and yeah, people get hurt but what matters is taking down the bad guy’ spiel is totally your idea.”

Peter gesticulates wildly with a visceral groan. “I--stop putting words into my mouth! I didn’t say it like that!”

“Oh, really. Then please, by all means, rephrase it for me. Because it sure as hell sounded like a spitting image of Captain America’s rousing pep talk about fighting for good ole Uncle Sam and his _fucking_ outdated ideals.”

“I don’t even _like_ Mr. Rogers.”

“Yeah, buddy, it sure sounds like you don’t. Why don’t you just--go home and dress up in some star-spangled tights while you’re at it and go ring up your new buddy for lessons on how to become a mini-Rogers. I’m sure you’d ace that course, kid. You absorb more from him in a day than you ever could from me in a month.”

“That’s--” A moment of complete silence follows, a second in which the charge in the air palpably shifts, and then Peter’s unbuckling his seat belt and fumbling for the door handle and jiggling it open with shaking fingers. “I can’t. I’m done.”

A spike of anxiety impales Tony then. “Hey. Kid. Hey, hey, hey. Stay. You know I didn’t--c’mon, I’ll take you home.”

“No thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“Kid!” Tony almost hates how his voice cracks. Almost. “It’s too far of a walk. Let me at least drop you off.”

But Peter’s already out of the car and on his feet, a deadness in his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I’m Spider-Man.”

“Peter,” Tony tries one last time.

The kid huffs out a laugh. “You know, when I was little I used to adore Captain America. Not nearly as much as Iron Man, but still a lot. I stopped feeling that way after I found out what really happened between him and you. And to think--you actually thought I could ever betray your loyalty...”

The boy stops to shake his head. Is he warding off tears? Tony can’t tell past the sudden, unbidden moisture clouding his own gaze. His chest tightens in a vice grip around his lungs, and suddenly words are too thick and foreign to him.

“Iron Man was my idol. A true hero. When you took away the suit, I--it was horrible. I thought you were harsh for no reason. But then it turned out you weren’t, and I learned a valuable lesson, and we started...building whatever this is, whatever we have between us… I learned that you’re tough, but you always listen to me even when it seems like you don’t.”

Peter takes a deep breath and pauses to grab his empty Frosty cup from the car seat and shut the door before uttering his last words through the open window.

“I guess I was wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ...Okay, a couple of things.
> 
> 1) The whole plot with AMMO will not be dropped. In fact, this fic was an elaborate set-up for my upcoming Peter-Tony Big Bang fic, This Is a Mad Boy, which will address the AMMO scheme and a shitload of angst along with it.
> 
> 2) Speaking of which, I edited and released this teaser trailer for Mad Boy last month but held off on sharing it with y’all until now so you could get to know the AMMO plot first: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JuMWpn_Ld3k>. The tentative summary is in the video description. ;) (It’s coming out in January 2019, so please don’t kill me before then. I COME BEARING PROMISES OF HAPPY ENDINGS...eventually.)
> 
> 3) So Jonathan is based on a real-life bully I had in grad school (yes, omg, those actually still exist in grad school, who would’ve thought). Alice-in-ink was like ‘wow it’s so funny how like when you write about a moon crashing into Peter’s shoulder you’re like, oh yeah, btw, this was inspired by that time a moon crashed into my own shoulder and like could you try to have a less painful life for me?’ I FEEL YOU. But anywho, I never got beat up by a bully, so don’t worry, I’m fine. 
> 
> This real-life bully was...complex. He was very intelligent and he and I always vied for the spot at the top of the class. He liked me, too, and tried to impress me, but I already didn’t like his insecure, show-offy personality so I subtly rejected him. Then when I casually came out to a group of friends in our office (the first time I’d come out to _anyone_ irl) as genderqueer/possibly trans, boy, did he have a lot of nasty and disgusting thoughts to share about trans people and their...being undeserving of certain basic human rights. I’d like to say I was proud of how I handled the situation, but I was totally unprepared for a transphobic response from him (he was a liberal) and I had previously felt safe enough in that space to finally come out. So basically I had a panic attack and don’t remember much, but one of my friends did defend me, so my eternal thanks are owed to her.
> 
> The conflict between him and me continued until the end of the school year, but at least I came out at the top of the class. ;)
> 
> 4) I headcanon Peter in this universe as biracial with Cuban heritage, so he was speaking Spanish to Malia in the bathroom scene. He was basically telling her to leave and find a teacher who could help.
> 
> 5) Okay, okay, okay. I just REALLY wanted to write a fic where Peter and Tony had a screaming match and I needed a legitimate premise to back it up, so I hope you enjoyed that pain! I promise this is angst with a HAPPY ENDING! *awkward laughing* What do y’all think? Also, what do you suppose actually happened in the bathroom after Peter told Malia to leave?Don’t be scared, LEMME KNOW IN THE COMMENTS BELOW! Ilysm <3
> 
> (The next and final act will be a _long one_ , so buckle up, lads. I’m still in the process of finishing and editing it, so if you happen to have any ideas or suggestions, I just might tweak what I already have to fit your comments ;D)


	3. Act III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To his credit, Peter holds it together on the long walk to their lockers. MJ’s already there, which startles him a little bit because both her locker and her first period of the day are on the opposite side of the building. A little less startling is the fact that she’s wielding a plastic butter knife. Maybe because she’s MJ.
> 
> “What’s--”
> 
> MJ actually whirls at the first croak of Peter’s voice. The scraping motion of her butter knife against the front of Peter’s locker comes to a halt. She glares at Ned. “Leeds. You were supposed to keep him outside longer.”
> 
> “I tried!” Ned makes a helpless gesture.
> 
> Peter cocks his head at the piece of construction paper apparently superglued to his door.
> 
>  _GAY_.
> 
> Unoriginal, but true.
> 
> He rolls his jaw. “They could’ve gone with rainbow instead of pink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry this took slightly longer than expected! As some of you already know, I got heavily distracted by an Interwebs oneshot idea I just couldn't get out of my head, so if you're interested in exploring that overlapping universe you can head on over: [Remember How to Shine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15666837). #shamelessselfplug
> 
> Also also! My two good friends Bee and Kirstie have been posting AMAZING stuff for Iron Dad! Bee just started this hilarious one-month advent type of fic that's full of shenanigans with Peter, Harley, Riri and Tony: [It All Happened in June](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15695202/chapters/36473427)  
> And Kirstie's recently finished work, [5 Wishes Peter Didn't Ask For and the 1 He Did](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15532275/chapters/36055671), is super cute and fluffy with just a dash of angst. Check 'em out!!
> 
> Please note, the tags on this have changed slightly. There is a very slight reference to a previous sexual assault (involving Skip Westcott; it's literally one sentence). Since this fic is set before Time Shifting Weight in this series, Peter hasn't addressed the Skip issue yet with Tony and still doesn't want to talk about it with anyone.
> 
> Lots of panic attacks in this act. Please stay safe. <3

**_Act III_ **

Eight missed calls. Three from Tony, five from Ned. About twenty texts and two from MJ. Peter is pretty sure if he logs onto Facebook, there’ll be a notification from Malia as well.

The walk home was a blur. He recalls blinking back the hot moisture from his eyes as he whirled on his heel and strode off from the parking lot. He remembers hating those unshed tears, not because he felt that they made him weak, but because he knew that once he opened the floodgates, everything else would follow. The constriction in his chest. The shortness of breath. The vertigo blooming at the back of his head and spreading like a venom down his spine to the very ends of his nerves.

So he quashed it. He gulped in three, four, five ragged breaths and clenched his fists against his sides and he seized the emotion by the throat and choked it. And he kept walking.

He knew, too, what always came after the suppression: the shaking. He knew his limbs and his fingers and even his very veins would be trembling. But moving forward in a daze, with no power over his body, seemed the far more appealing option than opening his arms to the pain.

Peter keeps walking.

The first call from Tony comes as he’s jiggling the lock to his apartment with unsteady hands. It’s nothing but a low buzz, but it sets off all the alarm bells in his brain and the anxiety is spiking behind his eyes before he can curtail it. He stumbles through the door. Somehow he digs out the phone from the pocket of his backpack and makes four attempts to swipe to deny the call before the device slips from his fingers and tumbles to the carpet. He simply stands there and counts his heavy breaths, staring down at it, facedown, still buzzing like a goddamn siren to his ears.

Two minutes pass, thick with uneasy breaths, in which Peter doesn’t move.

The phone buzzes again.

This time, Peter wills his uncooperative limbs to propel him forward and grab the phone and launch it at the wall. Even his aim is off, and it bounces off the arm of the couch, then the edge of the coffee table, then skitters underneath the sofa. He leaves it there. Walks stiffly to his bedroom to tear open the window and lean against the balcony railing. 

He’s not crying. He won’t.

\--

_Omg Pete i heard what happened are you ok??_

_Dude_

_Dude dude dude it’s been twenty minutes you never take this long to check your phone_

_Are you in the hospital?!_

_Nvm i just asked may and she said youre home_

_Soz for freaking out_

_I’m still freaking out tho_

_You probs wanna be left alone but i’m really worried about you_

_Are you eating enough? Make sure you eat enough_

_Also if you suspect you have a concussion do nOT GO TO SLEEP TELL MAY RIGHT AWAY SO SHE CAN TAKE YOU TO THE HOSPITAL_

_Ok last text i promise but Malia DMed me and she’s freaking out too. Maybe you should just let her know you’re ok bc i think she thinks it’s her fault_

_Did you get MJ’s text? Now she’s on my case too_

_Dude_

_Last one I promise_

_Get some rest and try to call me tomorrow ok. We’re all worried and we love you bro. Don’t like die on us_

_Ok ok last one last one i super promise_

_At least you get to spend your days off at the compound right ?? SO FUCKING COOL_

_Lmk everything that happens_

_Ok this is the last one fr tho. Night Peter see you on Monday_

_CALL ME THO BRO. ILL MURDER YOU IF YOU DONT_

Peter sits with his back against the bed and his arms propped against his knees. He clicks his phone on and off, on and off, on, off, blinking at the blue haze pulsing from the screen in the dark. 

He almost wishes he could just surrender to the ugly stab in his chest, the voiceless tone that tells him: _You fucked up. You screwed it. Own up to your sins. When will you realize you’re the one always hurting and pushing away the people around you?_

But he can’t. His brain--the part that is not spread thin and shaking from the sheer effort of keeping the waves of anxiety at bay--is screaming at him that he was right. He _is_ right. There is no guilt to fall into, at least not enough to weave a hammock to catch him in his childish grief: no easy escape from the epiphany he refuses to face.

Tony Stark fucked up.

And how do you fix what’s been broken when you can’t even apologize for the half you never broke?

\--

There are no words exchanged in the morning. No words of real significance, at least. May looks up from her spot seated at an odd angle to the kitchen dinette, coffee mug poised in her slack grip, and then she gets up and opens the freezer to retrieve an ice pack wrapped in their olive dish towel. She hands it to Peter and hovers a minute at his side, pushing the hair back from the side of his head where it’s been flattened by him sleeping sitting up against the wall.

Peter’s tempted to refuse the ice pack. They both know the worst of his injuries have already mended considerably overnight. But he thinks better of it, because he knows May, and he knows he has to give her this. He lifts the ice pack to his left eye and simply stands there next to the warmth of her presence.

“Chocolate chip muffin’s in the fridge,” May murmurs.

He walks to the library after she leaves for her double shift. His phone starts buzzing again, and again he ignores it.

He’s wearing the suit underneath his hoodie. He doesn’t even know why. Last night he grabbed it in a flush of rage and adrenaline and swung out of his window, but less than a minute into patrol he suddenly couldn’t continue. He ripped his mask off and swung to the roof of a neighboring apartment building three blocks away, and he paced and paced along the brick wall in the glare of the moon, and he drew one gasp after another for the breath he’d lost. He looked out at the city’s twinkling lights and he felt abruptly blinded by it. And he thought and he thought, chasing after other thoughts, chasing himself in a circle. Running from the rest of the things he couldn’t help thinking.

_Guess I’m not that surprised you’re throwing yourself in front of a crossdressing fag. That something Tony taught you?_

He sat on the brick wall with his legs hanging over the edge for maybe two hours. Maybe five.

The rest of the time, after he crawled back in through the window he’d carelessly left up, he shivered at the draft that swirled around his room and collapsed in a corner of the wall and fell into an illusion of sleep.

\--

She pleads for them to go to Mass that Sunday. Not that he really puts up a fight--he’s glad to accompany her anywhere she goes--but to his ears the unnatural quietness of her request sounds as though she expected him to burst out shouting at any moment.

It hurts him, just a little. He’s hardly even uttered a word in the past four, five days.

He wears the suit again underneath his maroon button-down. Idly, Peter wonders if Tony ever wore a maroon dress shirt of this shade in his lifetime. He doesn’t think he’s seen the man in anything but black or white or shades of gray outside the iron suit.

_(You’re not fooling anyone, Pete. Stark Internship, my ass!)_

The father goes on about lessons learned in the Garden of Eden. For some reason it rubs Peter the wrong way, a way that he has never felt or stopped to consider before.

If you knew what man would choose and then punish him for it, why give him the choice in the first place?

The waves that have been steadily building inside him beat relentlessly against his dams as he slumps in the pew, all too hyper-aware of the material of the suit against his skin and the taste of his breaths and the sound of May’s heartbeat. (There are five hundred, a thousand heartbeats in here. He hears them all. It’s stifling.)

When his chest begins to clench too much and his vision shimmers before him, he falls back on the little trick that, ironically, Tony taught him. Keep your head down a little. Place your hands on your knees. On one hand, count out slowly to five and breathe in with it. Then lower the fingers one by one again until you’re back at zero and breathe out.

Breathe in. One, two, three, four, five. Breathe out. Four, three, two, one, zero.

_(Did he make you gay? C’mon, you didn’t use to be like this. Was Stark the one who made you gay?)_

One, two, three, four, five. Four, three, two, one, zero.

And repeat.

\--

Tony doesn’t bother calling anymore that Sunday afternoon to ask where he is.

Peter is almost glad.

_(You’re not fooling anyone.)_

Glad he can drown alone in a wave of loss that doesn’t make sense, away from the eyes of the man who raised the waters.

\--

Peter’s brain tends to think back on the Monday he went back to school as a series of bridges. Strings of minutes between moments of panic. The level of uneasiness varies: sometimes it’s sharp and blinding and it hits him at full force between the eyes; other times it’s the dull dig of a lazy claw in the pit of his stomach.

“Peter!”

The blur of gray and red hurtling at him down the steps of the school bears Ned’s voice. He collides into Peter with arms wide open. Ordinarily, Peter’s super strength would absorb the impact and buoy them up, but Peter’s mind is fragmented and floating and his ribs still throb with the phantom ache of the fists that struck them days ago.

He shushes Ned’s stuttered apology and, after a small hesitation, for the first time in what feels like an eternity of shying away from touch, he returns the gesture. He wraps his own arms around the back of Ned’s shoulders and squeezes.

Ned lets out a wet laugh. “ _Dude_. We all thought your phone had died or something. Well, actually, we thought _you_ had died, but MJ kept reminding me you’re way too annoying to just up and do that to us.”

Peter will never know why that’s the trigger. It’s random. Stupid. Just a sincere little comment from his best friend, a corny secondhand joke passed on from Michelle. But in the space of less than a blink, the waves inside him have roared to life again, and the dam isn’t nearly strong enough. Not high enough. He’s sucking in breaths through his nose and he’s hurling down new fences into the ground around him, but they all sink and transform into driftwood in the ocean that won’t be tamed. The air burns.

And then the next thing he knows, he’s clutching the back of Ned’s hoodie with his knees buckling under him and he’s full-on sobbing with quiet, ugly sounds. The only thing keeping up the appearance that he’s standing is Ned’s firm embrace that steadies him on his feet.

“Pete,” Ned says. His voice breaks.

Peter doesn’t want to talk. He can’t talk, even if he tried. Not that his voice has failed him--but that the rolling tides inside him have transcended the expression of any words.

“Pete,” Ned speaks again. “Pete.”

Peter’s only response is to nuzzle his head sideways against Ned’s cheek. Ned’s flop of hair tickles his brow.

“There’s a couple things you gotta know before you go in. Uh...stuff that happened in the last couple days. It’s been hectic, man.”

Peter sniffs and starts to pull away, but Ned stops him with a firm squeeze.

“Hey. If you don’t wanna let go just yet it’s okay.”

Shame is already starting to override any other signals from Peter’s brain. Hell no, he’s not ready to break the hug and stand again on his own, but the habits drilled into him by a personality of guilt are too hard to shake. He loosens his hold on Ned--warm, cuddly, safe Ned--and brings up his hands to swipe agitatedly at the ridiculous wetness in his eyes.

“Okay.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He’s hoarse. “I’m okay. Hit me.”

“Well, um...he’s back.”

Peter doesn’t need to clarify who. He shrugs. “I figured.” His shoulders shudder--a residual spasm from his outburst.

“Well, there’s just--it’s--hard to explain but...he said stuff about what happened. Stuff that’s totally not true. And not _everybody_ believes him, but I figured you needed to know now rather than later.”

Peter’s knees are shaking again. He needs to move, now. He can’t keep standing here batting away futilely at the memory of that morning in the bathroom. So Peter hikes the backpack up higher on his shoulders and grabs Ned’s sleeve in a fist and starts hauling his best friend up the stairs toward the school. Ned’s trying to say something else, there’s a returning pressure on his wrist that’s warning him about something, and the low buzz of his Spidey-sense is beginning to bother him at the back of his skull, but he’s plowing ahead and when he finally realizes his mistake it’s too late.

“Hey, Peter. Had fun with Tony Stark this weekend?”

The worst part of it is that Peter doesn’t even recognize the voice. His head jerks up and it’s that blond kid from history, the one that sits three rows from the front and one seat from the west window.

“Um, I--I--”

Ned squeezes his wrist again. “Piss off, Jordan.”

Another kid shows up at Jordan’s side with a smirk Peter doesn’t trust. “Yeah, Jordan. Piss off. It’s not worth talking to some dipshit that sucks Tony Stark’s dick, anyway.” He slings an arm over Jordan’s shoulder and the two slide through the doors with a high-pitched laugh.

This is fine. Peter’s fine.

To his credit, he holds it together on the long walk to their lockers. MJ’s already there, which startles him a little bit because both her locker and her first period of the day are on the opposite side of the building. A little less startling is the fact that she’s wielding a plastic butter knife. Maybe because she’s MJ.

“What’s--”

MJ actually whirls at the first croak of Peter’s voice. The scraping motion of her butter knife against the front of Peter’s locker comes to a halt. She glares at Ned. “Leeds. You were supposed to keep him outside longer.”

“I tried!” Ned makes a helpless gesture.

Peter cocks his head at the piece of construction paper apparently superglued to his door.

 _GAY_.

Unoriginal, but true.

He rolls his jaw. “They could’ve gone with rainbow instead of pink.”

MJ renews her ministrations with vigor. Ned slides him a cautious look from the corner of his eye, but Peter’s managed to find a broken piece of his dam and slowly patch up his fences again. The water lurks in the shadows, biding its time for the moment to spring. He has the door poised to slam against the emotions when he needs it to.

“You’re gonna be late,” Peter says to MJ. “I’ll take care of it later. Uh...thanks.”

She hands him the plastic knife with a nod.

\-- 

“Are you gonna deny it?”

Any other person might have been offended, but Peter knows MJ. Her deadpan tone holds just a tinge of curiosity to it. No judgment, no expectation either way.

Still, Peter can’t find it in himself just yet to look at her. He stares at the semblance of a sandwich on his tray.

“Why would I?”

Nothing in MJ’s pose changes one bit--not a hair, not a finger resting on her closed book--and yet something in the air about her palpably shifts. To his other side, Ned’s hands still around his juice box. It’s the only visual acknowledgment that no, Peter hasn’t read them wrong. They all know this is a heavy moment.

He’s never come out to anyone before.

And he never planned for it to go like this.

_(What does Tony Stark need with an intern, anyway? That’s complete bullshit. We all know he’s your sugar daddy.)_

MJ chooses her words carefully. “That doesn’t mean you have to acknowledge it when you’re not ready.”

Peter forces himself to take a bite and swallow. He wants to throw it back up again. “It’s not as simple as that. Not anymore. Before, I could ignore it, like, like, it wasn’t a necessary part of me. Now I--it--there’s only yes or no. Acknowledge or deny, and if I deny, that’s--and came out later on--it’s not.” He cuts himself off. The wave is getting dangerously close to the brim of his dam again. “It’s not fair. It’s not right. Not for people like Malia.”

“It’s _your_ life,” Ned flounders. Peter forgives him the language, because he _knows_ Ned is just worried out of his mind for him.

They are all interrupted then by a shadow and a quiet voice above their heads. “Hey. Can I sit here?”

Peter’s gaze snaps upward. His eyes widen. “Malia--your nose!”

“Yeah, I know. I see it in the mirror every day.” She waves him off with a hand and returns a tight smile as she slides her tray over in front of the three.

Peter simply continues to stare. The bridge of Malia’s nose is bandaged over, and her curly fringe conceals a row of neat stitches at the upper corner of her forehead.

Malia stabs at her sandwich and then matches Peter’s gaze with intensity. She cracks into a wry grin. “Heyy, we’re matching.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, I guess we are.” Peter thumbs the smaller plaster over his own nose. He hardly needs it, but he’s taken to the habit of covering up old injuries that are long faded so as not to rouse suspicion at his superhuman healing abilities.

“That was...the other thing I forgot to mention this morning,” says Ned.

Peter swallows. There’s a knot in the middle of his throat that just keeps growing and growing, and he can’t even call the rising water inside him a wave anymore because now it’s over him, on top of him, pressing down on his lungs with an iron weight. He is a speck in the black of the deep ocean. His stomach turns.

Peter forces his shaking hands out from under the table to press at his his closed eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. It wasn’t Jonathan. You wouldn’t have known.”

“But it was his friends, wasn’t it?”

The loud thunk of MJ’s book hitting the table makes them all jump. “Peter Parker, there was nothing you could have done about it.”

“Yes, there _was_. I shouldn’t have provoked him.” Peter presses again, harder, at his eyeballs until there are rainbow sunbursts behind his lids. “Malia, I’m so, _so_ sorry. Are you okay? When did this happen?”

“Wednesday.”

Suddenly the voice that has been taunting him at the back of his head feels like a petty ghost. The gnawing he has felt for five days in his gut now twists into an ugly punch of anger. 

All they are is words.

_(How old even were you when you started sucking his dick?)_

Stupid fucking words.

Malia’s been hurt. She’s been punched, she’s been cut so bad she needed stitches. Her nose has been fucking _broken_.

All because of him and his stupid fucking inability to control his fists--

“Are you okay?”

Malia is looking at him oddly, even incredulously. “Yeah, of course I am. Dude. Don’t freak out. You saved me back there in the bathroom.”

_Sometimes, fighting for what you believe in and trying to protect others, there's other people that get hurt._

“But I wasn’t there when it really mattered.”

 _You’re wrong_.

“Peter,” MJ says sharply. “You had your own shit to deal with. We all get it. Nobody hates you. Okay? We were all worried sick about you. Freddie saw what you looked like in the nurse’s office and that’s all we had to go by when you just went off the radar. We’re just glad you’re okay.”

_It's always a war. Just on a different scale, depending on every different interaction._

“Exactly,” Malia offers. “C’mon, _’pa’re_. Think this is my first rodeo?”

“Yeah, no, but you--” He doesn’t say the rest of it. That he should be the one taking it, he should be the one protecting her, because he’s the one with the goddamn superpowers and the healing factor.

He can’t breathe.

“That’s slightly concerning, Malia,” Ned mutters around the straw of his juice box. “But also, like, super badass. Did you ever join your cousins in fights or anything?”

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

“I love a good fight, but I’m not an idiot.” Malia rolls her eyes and catches MJ smirking at her in approval. She adjusts her headband. “Never took you as one for violence, Ned.”

“Whoa. Peter! Are you okay?”

 _He can’t breathe_.

He curls his fingers and digs them deeper into his face, almost as if he can claw his eyes out. Fucking perfect. Malia said she’s fine, and she looks pretty fine. Why can’t his brain just let it go?

He tries his best to unstick one hand from his skin to start the countdown from five to zero. He finds, to his even greater panic, that he can’t move his arm. His muscles are locked, clenching, and everything behind his ribs is collapsing inward, again and again, and again, without end.

Not even Tony’s countdown trick works now.

His voice sounds like gravel. He barely recognizes it as his own. “I need to go home.”

\--

Bridges. Two bridges, three bridges. More than that today, more than he could count, between the spikes of panic.

As he stands at the side entrance of the tower, left hand circling frenetically at the web shooter around his right wrist, he stares at the intercom in front of him and thinks this might be the very last bridge.

He’s rebuilt his dam too many times. Five days, now six days, has spread him thin and it’s torture.

Tony was right. He always is right in the end, in his own bitter-pilled way.

Somebody got hurt because of Peter--because of Spider-Man--the line between those two got so damn blurry and it’s all Peter’s fault--and that somebody wasn’t the bully. It was the very person he told himself he was protecting.

All because of his selfish ego.

He thunks his head against the intercom and smashes a bunch of keys with his forehead. The connection screeches to life.

“Well, the head of security’s stepped out for a donut he said he _absolutely needs_ this very minute, so it’s me you got. Who is it?”

No.

No no no no.

Tony can’t be here. He’s supposed to be upstate. Peter never meant to--he didn’t care about the intercom--just wanted to be near this safe space--

“Mr.--” He doesn’t even get to finish saying the name because a wet, ugly gasp escapes his mouth.

“Peter?”

There’s static on the line, or maybe that’s the static in Peter’s brain. Tony’s voice cuts in and out.

“Thank God--’m coming--’n’t go anywhere--stay there, kid. I’m coming down.”

It doesn’t even feel like ten seconds before Tony’s there in front of him, all grease and ragged tank top and worried crease lines in his face. Tony’s there, in flesh and blood.

“Are you hurt? Pete, talk to me, please. _Are you hurt?_ ”

He manages to shake his head.

His knees are shaking again. He shoots out a hand to catch himself against the glass wall, at the same moment that Tony lunges a step forward as if to catch him. Tony halts just a pace away.

“Kid, can I touch you?”

Again, Peter shakes his head. He doesn’t want to, but it’s all becoming too much. The light, the static, the anger--the _ocean_ \--it’s swallowing him whole. It feels like he’s never coming out alive from this one.

“Okay. Okay, okay. That’s fine. That’s cool. I’m right here, kid. I’m not going anywhere. You remember the breathing trick? Can you do that for me or do you need help?” Peter’s still shaking his head, so Tony amends: “Nod yes if you can do it, shake no if you need me.”

Peter shakes his head.

"Okay. One. Kid, look up a little. _Kid_. I’m sorry, bud, I need your chin up so this’ll work. Look at me. One...two...three...four...five...release. Four...three...two...one...zero.”

After the ninth round of counting, Peter’s vision is no longer reeling as much and he feels like the function has returned to some of his muscles. He can haul the breath back into his lungs without so much prompting from Tony anymore. The man notices, and immediately switches tactics.

“I’m so glad you came over, Peter. I tried calling but of course that’s not enough. It’s not an excuse. I just wanted to say I’m sorry, and--well, no, not _just_. I’m so, so sorry, Peter. That’s just the beginning of what I wanted to say. I mean...no. Christ. I’m doing this all wrong. This isn’t about me or about what _I_ want to say. That’s exactly where I went wrong, where I screwed up, big time. It was all about what I wanted you to hear and not the other way around. You’d think I’d’ve learned my lesson by now, but no, you’re here and I’m here and it’s all a goddamn _mess_ because I was a dick to you--there’s nothing I can say or do to remotely make up for what I said. But I take it back. God, I take it all back.

“You’re so brave, Peter. You’re literally the most selfless kid I’ve met on the planet, and believe it or not, I’ve met a fair shitload of kids. Or people. Because you’re the most selfless _person_ I’ve ever known, period. You did what you thought was right because you’re a hero. You protect the little guy, and what you did back there? For your friend? That’s being a hero. I took that away from you and I threw it in your face. I’m sorry. I made it all about me when it was all about you and what _you_ do for Queens.

“The truth is--and I’m, I’m not, I’m not making up excuses here--I deserve for you to never talk to me again--hell. Please don’t do that. Please don’t. You worried me sick this past week. But the truth is, something’s come up that made me fear for your safety. There’s a--there’s a--something coming. Something targeting mutants. And when I realized you might have accidentally revealed your super-strength in that throwdown with that kid, I--Jesus. It scared me shitless.”

Peter doesn’t know at what point during this rambling monologue they both slipped inside the tower, but he’s coming back to himself and it’s only now he realizes with a start that he’s sitting on a too-plush sofa, staring at the toes of Tony’s work boots. The man is propped against the armrest of the loveseat adjacent to the boy.

Peter wants to straighten and look Tony in the eye, talk to him like an adult, but the exhaustion of battling the sea inside him has overcome him. He slumps forward with his head against his knees.

“’S not your fault,” he mumbles. God, his throat is raw. Almost like he’s been screaming himself senseless for the past twenty-four hours.

He picks up on Tony’s heartbeat calming down considerably at hearing his first coherent sentence. “It is, Pete, and there’s no way I’m going to let you take the blame.”

Peter insists into his knees: “Still not your fault. You were looking out for me, just like you always have. I should have just apologized like a--like a mature person and taken your advice. And especially at a time like this, when--when Mr. Rogers--he was in town, and of course it was horrible of me to start talking and acting like him like that, and I know it doesn’t seem like it but I _never_ supported him or his ideas in the conflict you guys had--not even once--so I’m so sorry that--”

Tony lifts a hand. “I have to stop you right there, kid. No. You don’t have to apologize about anything. Got it?”

“But she--” Peter’s voice hitches. “She got hurt because of me.”

Tony’s heartbeat stutters into a gallop. “She…?”

“It’s not your fault. It’s mine. You were _right_. I was fucking stupid and selfish and she got _hurt_ as a result, and there’s nothing I can do to to take it back.”

“Peter. _Peter_. Keep on breathing. We can’t have another panic attack now, kid. I don’t know what’s been going on on your end these past several days, but by the looks of it you’re about to pass out.”

The cynical part of Peter’s brain says, well, he’s not wrong.

When the crest of Peter’s anxiety finally drifts down again, Tony clears his throat. “That was nobody’s fault but Jonathan’s. You understand me?”

Peter reluctantly nods.

“ _Jonathan’s_ fault. Not yours. He said things no decent human being should have, regardless of your friend being transgender or not. You were doing your civic and moral duty to step in and defend her. And him sending his buddies to retaliate against her while you were forcibly removed from school? That makes him nothing better than scum.”

Peter flinches at the venom in Tony’s voice.

_(How old were you when you started sucking Tony’s dick?)_

“Hey Underoos, you haven’t said much. I get that you’re pushing through this whole guilt thing, but normally by this time you’re talking a mile a minute. Care to share what’s on your mind?”

 _Ten, when Skip touched him_.

Peter opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Tony crumples forward with a sigh and he sinks down into the empty spot next to Peter. He lowers a hand softly to the kid’s shoulder. He understands.

“Can’t...put it all in words right now. It’s all so _much_.”

Tony speaks in a whisper. “I know, kid. I know.”

“She had to get stitches a-and her nose--they probably set her nose…”

A solitary pop breaks the silence as Tony’s knuckles crack from the exertion of curling his hand into a fist. “We’re going to take care of this Jonathan business, Peter. That’s not a suggestion, that’s a promise. I’m going to personally make sure your friend is safe.”

“She could have been safe already if not for my stupid pride.”

“Parker, not gonna lie, I’m a bit confused. You keep talking about pride, and frankly, I don’t see how sticking up for the little guy even remotely falls under that particular category of asshole.”

“I--” Peter sits up marginally to raise his head. He rests his elbows on his knees, rubs an oval pattern into the palm of his left hand with the middle finger of his right. 

“Take all the time you need, kid.”

Peter nods against the lump in his throat. He finds himself yanking unconconsiously at the hair at his nape.

“Please don’t do that. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

He snatches his hand back, chastised.

_Can’t talk about it. Don’t talk about it._

“...I wasn’t exactly defending Malia when the punching started.”

Tony makes a humming noise of inquiry. Frowns. “Explain.”

“I told her to go leave and find a teacher. She didn’t wanna leave me, but obviously I knew I could handle him if anything got physical, so I insisted. Eventually she left. It was after that that I...started...hitting him.”

The tenseness with which Tony starts digging at the grease under his fingernails tells Peter nothing has been clarified yet to the man.

“Mr. Stark, I--” Peter starts to claw at his shoulder. The cuff of his hoodie rides up as he does so, affording Tony a glance at the telltale crimson spandex of the suit. The man pauses in his fidgeting.

In the end, he decides the explanation is simple enough that he doesn’t need to ask.

Something happened when the kid was being Peter Parker. Something hurt him. Not when he was being Spider-Man.

“Mr. Stark...I’m...so sorry for what I’m about to say. H-he...no. I can’t repeat it.”

Tony pushes past his hesitation. He lays a palm against the back of the boy’s neck, grounding him, assuring him, whispering silently that he’s there.

“Peter, what did he say?”

The kid scratches at his knees through his jeans.

“That you--we--that I don’t have a real internship with you.” Once he’s started, there’s no stopping. “That it’s impossible, because like, what does Tony Stark need with an internship, right? And that...that...I must have-- _done something_...to earn this spot.”

Tony stiffens.

For the first time throughout their entire encounter, Peter raises his eyes to meet his mentor’s. They’re red-rimmed and dry.

Tony has one question. Well, several, really. But this is the one that springs to his tongue first. “How explicit did he get?”

Peter fidgets. His silence is answer enough for him.

“Peter, I swear I’m gonna--”

“I know.” Peter gulps and scratches at his shoulder again. “I know, Mr. Stark. I...I appreciate it.”

“I--D’you want some chocolate milk? You probably want some chocolate milk. C’mon, I’ll get you--”

“N-no. Please. I mean, no thanks. Can we just--sit first, for a while?”

Tony’s mind flashes back to the kid’s odd refusal of a burger last week. He nods and sinks back down again. “Whatever you need, kid.”

Somewhere in a distant hallway of the tower, Peter becomes aware the buzzing of the ceiling lights from the lab. Tony must have left it unlocked in his haste to get to the door.

Silence reigns once more between them. Peter picks at the piping on the edge of the couch cushion.

“Mr. Stark, everybody knows now. They talk about it.”

“They don’t _know_ anything, because it isn’t true,” Tony retorts. “You are the most brilliant kid I’ve ever had around science-ing with me, ever. No exceptions. That’s why you have an internship with me.”

Peter huffs out a sigh of frustration. Why can’t Tony understand? “I _know_ , Mr. Stark. But they’re _talking_ about it.”

That finally gets the man to stop. “That happen today? What did you say to them?”

“Nothing. B-because it’s true.”

“What the hell--”

“Not the internship part,” Peter interrupts him. “But the rest. It’s true.”

Tony scrubs his face with both hands. “Kid, you’ve lost me.”

“I’m g--not straight.” Peter’s voice sounds strangled. “They’re not wrong.”

Tony counts his own heartbeats. They’re throbbing and the room is suddenly hot, stifling, searing like a desert.

Suddenly, with a vengeance, everything snaps into focus. Everything becomes _clear_.

“Pete,” he says, broken. “Kid, I--I had no idea. Th-that--” That what? That Jonathan’s vulgar taunts would hit so close to home? That this was the root of the emergency-level panic attack the kid had outside his tower? That this was the _why_ behind him wearing the Spider-Man suit under his clothes?

That Peter is gay?

He had no idea of anything.

If there is one thing he knows, though, it is how Peter thinks, and Tony knows the kid is just glossing over the details of his week from hell. He knows, too, that the flatness in Pete’s eyes means he is nearing the end of his ability to keep it together much longer. His heart jerks with empathy. He won’t push the kid any further.

“Hey, Pete,” he says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m bisexual, too.”

There’s no reaction from the boy for the longest time. And then his eyes widen. He laughs incredulously. “Are you--are you--”

“Yep.”

“But you never--”

“Nope.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah.”

“Mr. Stark, you didn’t have to do that for me.”

“Do what, exactly?”

“Come out. That’s...deeply personal and I don’t want you feeling like my situation forced you to...but...oh my God.” The last phrase leaves him in something like a gasp. “Oh my God, Mr. Stark. Wow. I can’t--you have no idea how much this means to me. And, like, I’m so happy for you and really honored and proud that you shared this with me and, and…”

“Kid.” Tony clears his throat gruffly. Reaches over to pat his knee. “You didn’t force me. I mean, you’re not the first person I’ve told, but I also don’t just come out to everybody. This time I felt like I had to. What you went through--what you’re going through--damn. I...can’t even begin to imagine.”

Peter sucks in a breath. It makes a rattling sound, as if he could break again any second from the vulnerability of this moment. “It’s fine, Mr. Stark. It’s gonna be okay. Just gotta--grin and bear it, right?”

“No, Peter. You don’t have to grin and bear it. You understand? You _don’t_.”

Something about the way the man utters that sentence with his wide and sincere eyes makes Peter want to cry. After all this time, after all the detachment he’s accustomed himself to. He makes a wet sound as he swallows and looks away.

He changes the subject. “Mr. Stark, earlier you mentioned...something coming. About mutants.”

Tony mutters something under his breath that is most definitely not a colorful string of words. “Yeah, kid. So I did.”

“Is that what Mr. Rogers came to talk to you about?”

“It is.”

Peter frowns at his mentor’s monosyllabic responses. “Mr. Stark, you don’t need to feel bad. I totally get it now, why you reacted the way you did when I told you about Jonathan. And to be honest, you got a point. You’re right.”

Tony simply looks at him with a pinched expression. “Kid, I would have clocked him in the jaw myself and blasted him with a repulsor and then some if I were there.”

The kid erupts into a sniffly little chuckle. Tony squeezes his shoulder fondly.

“They’re an organization in the early formation stages,” Tony goes on. “They’re still far across the country. We’re working on it. Gonna contain it before anything even starts to happen.”

Peter levels him with a look then. “Mr. Stark, aren’t they something I should worry about? If I could be out there helping mutants like me…”

“Peter. Answer me this.” Tony uses his grip on the kid’s shoulder to steer him into a better position for direct eye contact. “Do you trust me?”

Peter considers for a moment, and Tony will not lie, it makes his own heart thud a little faster. “Do you trust Mr. Rogers?”

Tony rubs his bottom lip. “I don’t trust Steve’s ideals, but...I trust him.”

A loaded statement, and one that makes little sense, perhaps, but it seems to satisfy Peter.

“Then I trust you, Mr. Stark. Completely.”

“Okay.” Wow, the weight of the boy’s one last word aches more than Tony expected it would. “Okay, kid. Okay. So when I say it’s nothing for you personally to worry about at this point, you trust me?”

Peter breaks into a split-lipped smile. “Yeah, Mr. Stark. I trust you.”

\--

Tony puts him to sleep with mint chocolate chip ice cream. Or rather, he insists on pulling out the tub of ice cream and force feeding it to the kid before he nods off completely on the couch.

_(“Not that freezer, kid. Open the second one.”)_

_(“Oh my--what the heck, Mr. Stark! It’s Ben & Jerry’s! MINT! How’d you know that’s my favorite flavor?”)_

_(“Uh, I didn’t?”)_

_(“Sure. Okay, Mr. Stark.”)_

_(“Hey. You sit your butt down there with a spoon and don’t you dare move to do anything. You’ve done enough moving and running and punching for an entire lifetime. I’m straitjacketing you now. You’re my prisoner.”)_

_(“If I’m your prisoner, do I get to stay in the lab?”)_

_(“You know that was a hypothetical statement, right?”)_

_(“Pfft. Just answer the question, Mr. Stark.”)_

_(“Okay. Fine. But humor me, why would I let you stay in my lab?”)_

_(“Because that’s how the storyline goes. I’m a smart prisoner who could curry good favor with you by proving my usefulness at science. I end up helping you and you develop, like, reverse Stockholm syndrome. Then we become friends and you realize holding me hostage isn’t that fun anymore and you take pity on me and let me go. And then there’s epic orchestral music in the parting scene, of course.”)_

_(“Geez-- You get way too invested in this. Okay, answer me this. Why would I even consider letting you into my lab when I know you’re smart enough to build, I don’t know, weapons out of my stuff?”)_

_(Peter widens his eyes to a comical size.)_

_(“But--but--I’m just a child. A small, innocent, harmless boy--a wee kinder--”)_

_(“Eat your goddamn ice cream.”)_

Peter drifts back to consciousness surrounded by a fuzzy warmth. It’s a blanket shrouding him up to his shoulders. He toes around at the end of the couch and finds his sneakers have been pulled off and set aside neatly under the coffee table.

In the distance, his superhearing picks up on Tony’s voice interweaving with May’s crackling on the phone. He makes out names tossed around: Ned, MJ, Malia. The principal. Talks about _this kid_ and _what a good kid_. _I’m sorry_ ’s and _don’t worry, it’ll be all right_.

He brings the blanket up to his face and inhales. It smells like Tony, but different from his day cologne or his everyday lab scent or the breeze he brings in after a drive in his topdown. Peter fails for words, but in the end he settles on this: it smells like a domestic Tony. A familiar one, like a family smell that has been there all this time. And he ponders with a little smile on the ironic nostalgia of a home he is just beginning to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: What. A ride. Ngl, I teared up a little writing this third act.
> 
> There was SO MUCH material I had written for Act III that unfortunately got changed, shuffled around or completely scrapped. They were pretty good scenes, too, but as I progressed chronologically in the writing process, I realized they just didn't fit. This is what happens when KC writes scenes out of order. After all these years, and he still hasn't learned his lesson. In the end, though, I think I'm relatively happy with where this whole fic ended. :)
> 
> I'm pretty nervous/anxious/excited/THRILLED to hear from you all, so please don't be shy and let me know your honest feedback in the comments below. If you think there's a raging plot hole that I must be bashed over the head with a hammer for, go for it, buddy. If you hate me now more than ever and want to scream into the void, I invite y'all to join me. Snack breaks are at 10 and 2.
> 
> Love you all!!
> 
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